


The Latin's a Joke

by aeterubrum



Category: Original Work
Genre: Again, Gen, Murder, Pretentious, but not for me, i don't really like it??, i wrote it for school, prose, spot the dante references, the murder is vague and passive except maybe a little about this one part so hence the rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 06:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13358112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeterubrum/pseuds/aeterubrum
Summary: I made a timeline for this so that's probably why I'm posting this even though it's a bit disjointed. Basically there's this dude who's going to kill loads of people in a theatre but like really vaguely. Imagine a Criminal Minds episode but from the murderer's point of view. And also I love Dante's Divine Comedy.





	The Latin's a Joke

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one last year. Honestly though, not even I remember all the references in this. Almost every piece of definite information is one.

There had never been a future for them; the show was to be their last bow. It would be a statement and a massacre and the inevitable end of The Geryon Murderer. Four hours from now Virgil Simone would be arrested for multiple homicide by the police, three hours from now an oblivious audience will be watching the finale of more than just the show, two hours from now anonymous would call the hotline and tell the investigators they knew where their subject would be, one hour from now a child would say goodbye to their family; and now, it was calm.

A deep breath in felt like a new beginning, smelt like death, and assured this was the only path paved. They’d been walking barefoot down a broken glass boulevard before being shown how close they were to salvation, how close a comfortable familiar concrete footpath was; just as close now was their destination.  
The closing night of _Quod Ubi Omnibus Mortuus Est_  was tonight and the actors would be on stage by seven, dead by the time the crowd re-entered after interval. The plan was in action after so long in preproduction and the violinist had been the one to execute.

A Plymouth Fury rolled into the driveway of a well-maintained bungalow at the edge of town. Relief at the end of something standing and staring them in the eyes, gossiping about history repeating itself and laughing amicably warmed the air in their lungs. Family would chill it again, each hug and smile raising goosebumps and panic along their skin; each greeting fell flat behind their eyes. Two parents, two children, and The Geryon Murderer go inside and have tea at a table.

“Welcome and hello Virgil, it’s been a damn long time since you were last here. You’re father and I haven’t even talked to you since you called about the hand practically in tears!”

“You know damn well how much that play means to me so do not mock me. I couldn’t come _because_  of it, we were rehearsing ‘most every day- and it was paying off. The run was going surprisingly smoothly with how little anyone cared.”

The accusation was unsurprising and had come up on that call made almost two months ago after their stint in the theatre orchestra came to an abrupt end due to an enraging double fracture of their left hand. Stressed and uncannily emotional the call had been made without pretence and with no real plan other than rant out all the ill-intentions of those around them. Strings complaining about too many parts, percussion too little; sound and lighting rushing their jobs, actors neglecting them all together- a few even badmouthing the play itself, claiming to only take the job for a joke. No one else cared and no amount of passive-aggressively drunk tea could change that.

“I can brew some more if you’d like…”

“No, I must get going, I bought a ticket for tonights’ show.”

“After all this complaining you’re going? You’ve already seen half the run anyways.”

“It’s my finale, the end of the run. No more shows after tonight and this time I’m going to really appreciate the show, no music to read and cues to follow.”

“Well, okay then. Get going, you’ve only got ninety minutes.”

Leaving was a lot easier, if more awkward, and the hedges continued chattering as the engine ignited and the car came rolling back down the driveway.

:::

About halfway through the journey to the theatre, forty-five minutes till it all began, they considered calling the hotline for the case they had opened. Their phone would be too obvious and a burner sat in their glove box for this exact occasion, they had always been good at planning for the future. The call wouldn’t be made until they were parking the car two blocks from the show. _Be there_ , they said, _at the Fairfax Theatre for When They All Died. The Geryon Murderer will be there for the show._

Inside the theatre felt a lot like the inside of their mind. Bustling with people, faint music playing over the loudspeakers, and a show about to go on. No one here would recognise them- no one cares about the orchestra and anyone who knew them from the company would be ready to go on stage. Their seat was front middle for a good view but still enough anonymity as to not cause a scene. Also, for convenience. All the rehearsals, the casting and recasting, the search for the perfect recreation would never have been complete without this. The introduction was set, the tension had built, now it was time for the grande finale. After all, at the end of the play everyone must die.

The first act was lacklustre but a healthy cheer still erupted from the crowd who knew no better. Everyone got up to leave for interval, they did not. Chatter was filtering out of the room allowing them to focus on their plan, even as the faint sound of sirens called in the distance. With the disguise of some friendly conversation they walked up to the orchestra pit and was approached by some young fellow violinists. Deciding not to talk a smile was throw their way, almost true and with a hint of something less than malice before their feet swept them over to the conductor and wound a C string around their neck from over the wall even despite their hindered dexterity. The cues had been particularly sloppy tonight.  
The few musicians still lingering didn’t hear a sound until they kicked the wall to get their attention, then they all came running over to help their hapless leader. Because of their position slightly above the failed saviours could not get the wire off and a few moments of panic were only interrupted after one volunteered to climb out of the pit and take out the offender themselves. All efforts would be in vain as police finally took their place on stage, shouting their position and demanding their prey so dramatically.  
All the commotion had brought an audience despite the efforts to close the doors to the public. They walked to centre stage and surrendered, hands up and smiling for the crowd. The group of detectives had split up, one calling paramedics for the conductor, two handcuffing and checking them for other weapons, three ordered to secure the premises.

“Do you know how we stay young these days? Murder and suicide, detectives. You should check backstage, see how the actors are doing for act two.”

“Do it, Donati, Vigna, Lucan.”

This was the climax and this was an early curtain call. **The chase ended up in the theatre; they were trapped.**It was certainly fitting and so carefully preordained. The police could claim this victory for the The Geryon Murderer had already won.

“They’re all dead, Dave, sir. Every last one.”

“The valiant never taste death but once, and I will say it tastes a lot like cyanide.”


End file.
